


the icarus to your sunlight

by TheSacrificialPancake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester From Hell, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Fluff and Angst, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Wingfic, YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS, an angel grips his human tight and raises him from perdition, and in doing so, dooms them both in the most glorious way possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27901993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSacrificialPancake/pseuds/TheSacrificialPancake
Summary: They meet for the first time in Hell.orIn order to save Dean Winchester, Castiel must first convince him of his humanity.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 121





	the icarus to your sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maxxeoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxeoff/gifts).



They meet for the first time in Hell.

Everyone assumes Hell is hot. “Fire and brimstone” and all that. And since humans prefer not to dwell on death and whatever horrors it may bring, they don’t put too much thought into disputing it. Besides, most people want to believe what they’re told. The commercialized image of the devil is one dressed in red with spiky horns, and yes, surrounded by fire. There’s even that billboard in Ohio that reads “HELL IS REAL” in enormous flaming letters. So, Hell must be hot. There’s no reason for people to think otherwise.

But Dean Winchester knows better.

Hell is more like dry ice.

Every surface in the place burns his skin like liquid nitrogen. Icy, frigid, but with a stinging molten blaze that creeps all the way down to his bone marrow. Hell’s thermostat may as well be set to “clammy”. He sweats and sways, and he gets shaky tension headaches like he’s about to faint from heat stroke. But at the same time, he sees his breath hover before his lips like a vengeful ghost is waiting in the shadows. From day one, the quivering chill crawled under his skin and settled there for good.

Dean wishes he could remember what it felt like to be warm. He hasn’t been able to conjure that memory in almost forty years.

~~~~~

Elsewhere, an Angel is beckoned to his superiors.

“Our Father has a task for you, Castiel.”

The Angel kneels at their feet, gracious. He has been bestowed with the honor of serving God. There is no greater purpose. “What would He have me do?”

“The Righteous Man must be rescued from Hell. We’re sending you.”

~~~~~

“That’s it, sweetheart, nice and slow.”

Dean can’t remember a single instance when Alastair’s slimy voice hasn’t made his skin crawl. The sickening sing-song sound slithers into his head and rattles there like a snake. He's been training and torturing under this demon for years, but even as Dean drags a rusty scalpel through the tattered mess of a soul on his rack, he still feels on edge about Alastair observing from behind. Frankly, he’s expecting a blow to the back of the head at any moment. His master is, after all, quick to criticize technique, and despite his petrifying hushed timbre, his preferred method of correction is not one of gentle verbal reminders.

Dean’s brain conjures an image of his father. He shoves it down, hard. John is not a demon, _was_ not a demon.

But Dean might be.

He practically is by now. Dean can feel the power surging through his veins with each and every cut. He torments souls with the best demons around. Word of his skill, his knack, his natural _flair_ for this kind of work spread quickly through the ranks of Hell when he first picked up that knife. To this day Alastair brings him special prisoners, those who’ve done horrible things in life and have earned horrible things in death.

Horrible things like Dean.

That’s all he is anymore, he thinks dully as he pulls an anguished cry from the soul before him. He barely pays her any mind, which nearly solidifies the thought. He’ll be a demon through and through soon enough, at the rate he’s moving. All he needs is the signature black eyes. He is already spineless, and cruel, and monstrous.

Maybe he always has been.

~~~~~

Castiel is not alone in his mission. He is given command of a battalion of fearsome warriors and ruthless fighters. He can hold his own in that regard, of course. He would not have been selected for such a task if that were not the case. However, his primary role in this fight is that of a general. A strategist. A leader. 

Castiel, Anael, Hester, Uriel, Inias, Rachel, and Balthazar stand tall at the gates of Hell. This tear in the fabric of their Father's universe manifests as a wide rip through the ground before them, a maw eager to devour. Castiel’s plan is risky, but they agree there is no version of this rescue that looks otherwise. He scans his garrison as they clean their weapons, preen each other's wings, and whisper prayers to their Father. 

He nods, and they fall into formation behind him. On his count, they draw their blades in unison.

Today is the day they descend. When they return, Dean Winchester’s work will begin.

Castiel’s white wings flair, and he lets himself fall.

~~~~~

Dean is so stuck inside his own head that he doesn’t register what Alastair is saying to him.

A meaty hand grabs him by the ear, and roughly hauls him around so they’re face to face. Dean swallows a shout. Apprentice or not, he can still be punished for making too much noise.

Today, Alastair wears a gaunt, stubbled face with yellowing teeth. Here in Hell where the demon wields such power, his form changes daily. Sometimes mid sentence. Only inches from Dean’s nose, today’s horror show twitches with mercurial energy, features morphing from one disturbing face to another. Dean stares unblinking at the one trademark that remains unchanged - the pitch black stygian eyes.

“I’m talking to you, boy.” The demon releases Dean, who stumbles back a step.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, rubbing at his ear. “What?”

A molasses slow smile spreads across his grimy face. None of Alastair’s expressions are in the same galaxy as comforting, but this particular one sends the ever present chill shivering down Dean’s spine.

“I was congratulating you. It’s been forty years to the day since my hellhounds dragged you kicking and screaming to my humble abode.” Dean clenches his jaw as Alastair gestures at the bloodstained dungeon. “And nearly a decade since you joined the staff. Do you know what that means?” Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak. “That means it’s basically your tenth birthday, little boy.” 

It’s all Dean can do to keep his face blank as he nearly throws up in his mouth. 

Alastair wraps an arm around Dean and spins him to face his rack. “I mean, look at what you’ve done here.” The once-woman stares through Dean with eyes gone flat in shock, barely hanging onto consciousness. “You’ve made progress. I haven’t seen such genius, such raw talent, in centuries! Maybe not since your friend Azazel.”

The rancid, rotting hunk of myocardium behind Dean’s sternum breaks. He’d call it a heart, but it stopped beating like one ages ago.

Dean remembers being on that rack with stunning clarity. The torture was creative, and, well, Hellish, and eventually he had cracked like the pathetic weakling he is. For ten years now, he has done what Alastair asked, what he swore he would never do. Even after this decade of playing for the other team, part of him desperately wants to believe this has all been a mistake. He dedicated his life on earth to saving people, hunting things. He always wanted to do good, to be good. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

 _No, it must not,_ Dean thinks.

Because if he is a good person, if he has one ounce of true, gracious _humanity_ in him, then he never would’ve gotten off that rack. Not if it meant becoming the thing he most despises.

Alastair watches him with sickening pride. “You’re the real thing, kid. And since you’ve done such excellent work, we’re gonna bump up your promotion.”

Dean gulps.

“It’s time for you to officially join us. You’ve done the legwork,” he gestures to the rack, “and now all that’s left is to sign the contract. One more touch from me and you get your very own black eyes, along with the welcome packet and the campus map.”

Alastair reaches out his hand to shake Dean’s, prepared to finalize the process. He waits for his apprentice to take it.

Dean must resign himself to the fact that this is his true self. He is hellspawn, created solely to cause pain and suffering to others. No matter who he tried to be on earth, the truth of the corruption at his core is obvious now. He deserves to be here in this frigid place for all eternity. 

_I’m sorry, Sammy._

He faces Alastair.

~~~~~

Castiel has been briefed well. He must not touch the Righteous Man until the moment is right.

Humans in hell have a tendency to disintegrate over time. Demons are formed once the soul burns out of someone, past the point of no return. Once the heart gives up hope entirely, the demonic spirit takes over and the human soul is beyond saving.

This is not a simple retrieval mission.

In order to save Dean Winchester, Castiel must first convince him of his humanity.

But before that, of course, they must find him.

Castiel’s garrison fights with precision and power. This is a raid, not a siege, and they stick together as such. While the armies of Hell are vicious, they are also sloppy. Formations break, defensive styles vary, and they take no heed to watch one another’s backs. This is where the Angels have the upper hand. Being created together and spending millenia training as soldiers side by side lends the battalion a unity, a smoothness, in thwarting their enemies. The demons and monsters swarming them are also partially blinded by the glow of the heavenly host. Each Angel shines a light that contrasts brightly to the dim red haze of Hell. Anael’s essence is cooper, almost a fiery orange. Balthazar’s, a bronze and golden blend. Castiel’s, he’s been told, is white tinged with royal blue.

They slash, stab, and smite their way through Hell, barreling through creatures so twisted and corrupted they are no longer recognizable. A pack of hellhounds races up their flank, their horrible faces contorted and snarling. Demons step over each other's dead bodies to get a chance to slice at the light of heaven. Castiel and his allies push forward.

It isn’t until they reach the chamber he has been searching for that Castiel realizes how long they’ve been fighting. A quick glance at his brethren indicate they are holding their own amongst the throng of demons.

Anael nods to him before stabbing through a hellhound. This plan has been thoroughly discussed. He entrusts the fight to his siblings and prays the garrison is able to maintain their position here, so Castiel can proceed to find the Righteous Man alone. Once Dean Winchester’s soul is in hand, he will send his siblings a telepathic message and they will all fly skyward as one.

Castiel steadies himself, reaches out with his grace to locate his charge, and flies to him.

~~~~~

“Well? Take my hand, sweetheart, what are you waiting for?” Alastairs sneers.

Dean doesn’t know.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind chimes in, praying to a God in whom Dean does not believe. _You’re waiting for a miracle._

Though Dean would be the last to admit it, sometimes, just sometimes, our prayers are answered.

Light bursts into the room. Dean and Alastair are both knocked to the floor in a powerful blast, shielding their eyes from the sudden blinding radiance. 

The relentless shiver under Dean’s skin deadens for the first time in forty years.

**You will not touch the Righteous Man.**

A deep, sonorous voice echoes from the source of the light. Dean doesn’t hear it ringing in his eardrums so much as he feels it vibrating through the air, pulsing in his chest like a subwoofer. It strikes him as reminiscent of the heartbeat Dean hasn’t felt in so long.

He sits up and tries to get his eyes to focus on the creature before him. He has to squint through his lashes to see any contrast in the light, for any form to become evident. As the thing steps closer, more details shift into focus. Eventually Dean makes sense of a vaguely bipedal shape. There is a torso, two legs, and two arms, one holding a viciously sharp silver blade. But that is where any humanoid resemblance ends.

The thing has three massive heads, each a different configuration of eyes and horns, like mystical animals Dean cannot place. Every iota of the thing glows brighter than anything in Hell. And lastly, Dean sees two, four, _six_ enormous wings arcing from the creature’s broad shoulders. They are pure white with sharp pointed feathers, gleaming silver at the tips. Dean gets the impression he could press a finger to the edge of one and draw blood like Sleeping Beauty on her spinning wheel.

He tries to place this image in his head. Yellowed pages of mythology and lore flutter to the forefront. Where has he seen this creature? Wings. Hundreds of eyes. Blinding light.

Hang on.

Dean focuses on the heads, specifically the light fanning out above them. It’s like an optical illusion, where he can tell there’s a picture there but can only see it from the exact right angle. 

It isn’t until he stands, leveling his eyes to the thing’s chest, that Dean catches a glimpse of the perfect circle of gold ringing the creatures heads.

Oh.

_Holy shit._

He had prayed for a miracle.

Alastair crawls to his feet, apparently several critical thinking steps behind his apprentice, and sneers at the light. “Who are you?”

**I am an Angel of the Lord.**

Dean can’t help but rub at his ears, even though the sound resonates mainly through his core.

**I am a warrior of God, and I have been sent to retrieve the Righteous Man from Hell.**

Alastair chuckles darkly. “The Righteous Man? This pretty boy wouldn’t know ‘righteous’ if it stabbed him in the chest.” The demon spits in the direction of the light. “He’s one of us now. In fact, he’s about to get his very first demonic Girl Scout badge, _Angel of the Lord._ Would you care to watch?”

Faster than Dean can lift his own blade, the light--creature--Angel is across the room and swinging for Alastair’s throat. The demon catches the strike with his own weapon, a sickeningly twisted broadsword that he is never without. The two begin brawling in a swirl of darkness and light that hurts Dean’s eyes to watch.

He stumbles away from them, cowering against the wall while his mind races to keep up. An Angel. An honest to God _Angel,_ with wings and a halo. No hunter has ever come across one before. He would know if they existed, wouldn’t he? There’s no such thing.

And yet, as he watches flashes of that silver sword arch gracefully through the air, the voice in the back of his mind whispers to him once again. _There’s your miracle._

Mary always said angels had been watching over him.

Maybe she was right.

**You will not disrupt the plans of Heaven, you abomination.**

“This ain’t Heaven, Angel.”

Alastair and the Angel battle it out while Dean watches, too shocked to move. He realizes with a start that he isn’t even sure who he’s rooting for in this fight. The Angel may be heaven sent, but Dean doesn’t want to get any closer to it than he has to. The thing radiates powerful energy, makes the stale air in the room vibrate with electricity. It hums, shaking grime and blood from the stone walls. He knows with unearned certainty that this creature could blow him to pieces with a mere thought, and he is terrified.

The Angel is stronger than Alastair. It seems to have infinite stamina and power, while towering three feet above the demon. Its bright glow never once falters with the clang of weapon on weapon, and Dean can tell it’s making Alastair angrier the longer the fight lasts. He gets the sense that ordinarily, this would hardly be a fair match at all.

But if there’s anything Dean knows about his master, it’s that he fights dirty, especially when standing on his own home turf. 

The Angel lands a slash across Alastair’s abdomen, who screams, but the victory is short-lived. The demon uses his own collapse to redirect a hidden blade upwards into the Angel’s core, and finishes with a ruthless twist. The Angel cries out, and the sound pierces Dean's skull.

**NO.**

“No!” Dean yells at the same time, dread swelling in his chest.

He hears his own outcry before he notices the sentiment behind it, and belatedly realizes. _Well, I guess that’s who I’m rooting for._

Dean jolts into action. He reaches for his tray beside the rack and swings an axe over his shoulder.

Alastair stalks towards the Angel, now crumpled to half its staggering height, clutching at its abdomen. A blue tinted light bleeds from the wound beneath its massive hand, flashing like quicksilver as it spills to the red stained floor.

Alastair’s horrible melodic voice rings out. “Something as bright and shiny as you don’t belong down here. It ain’t natural. Hurts my eyes just to look at you.”

The Angel gasps, its voice stuttering.

**Were we on earth and I in my _true_ form, your eyes would burn from their sockets, demon.**

Alastair whistles. “Man, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy. Anyway, as I was saying. Dean here ain’t your Righteous Man, and he sure as hell ain’t goin’ nowhere. Isn’t that right?”

Just as Alastair turns to face Dean, the axe swings with a high pitched _swoosh,_ and the demon’s head goes flying across the room.

Dean makes eye contact with the Angel.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for forty years.”

~~~~~

The Angel struggles to its feet, still radiating grace and power even as it lurches upright.

**Thank you, Dean Winchester. Now it is time to come with me.**

It extends one massive hand towards Dean, who hesitates.

“What’s your name?” Dean demands.

**I am Castiel, the Angel of Thursday.**

“Alright, Castiel, why do you keep calling me The Righteous Man?” 

Its-his?-three heads all tilt slightly to the side, as if confused by the question.

**Because that is who you are. It has been prophesied since The Beginning. You must return to earth. Heaven has work for you.**

Whatever scant hope for actual freedom Dean had been nursing drains away. “Work? What work?”

**We are not safe here. We will speak more of this once we have exited this realm.**

“Hey! Just because I helped you kick Alastair’s ass doesn’t mean I’m coming with you!” Dean takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to see you hurt just cause you came looking for me, but he wasn’t wrong. I am beyond fucked up. I have done worse things to souls down here than demons who’ve been around since the goddamn flood, alright? I am tarnished, broken, demon _trash._ My eyes should be turning black any second now, so I sure as fuck do not deserve to be resurrected like some righteous hero.”

Castiel pauses. Dean can’t make out any of his three expressions, but he gets the sense that all of them are seeing straight through him. 

**Don’t you miss your brother Sam? He mourns you, Dean. I can sense how much you long to see him again. You two could reunite.**

Dean has his axe to the Angel’s sternum before he can think, certain he couldn’t leave a scratch if he tried. “You keep my little brother's name out of your mouth. Mouths. Whatever.”

Castiel forces Dean to lower the weapon by pressing a single finger to it and pushing it to the floor. 

**I do not wish to provoke you, Dean. I only mean to remind you of what makes you human.**

“Well, what if I’m not?” Dean shouts. “There’s barely any human left in me! I am everyone’s worst nightmare, myself included. Monsters belong down here. You need a Righteous Man for your big heavenly plans? Guess what, I’m not your guy!”

**Yes, you are. You always have been.**

“How do you _know?”_ Dean cries out.

**Because, I can _feel your soul._**

The Angel reaches out, as if to press his palm directly over Dean’s heart. With the fire of self hatred coursing through his veins, Dean twists to avoid it. 

The moment Castiel’s hand connects with his shoulder instead, the world around them explodes in light.

They both scream. The searing imprint of Castiel’s hand burns into Dean’s skin, raising it in red, angry bubbles and sending lightning through Dean’s body. At the same time, a choking darkness crawls from Dean’s skin up Castiel’s arm. 

They arch against the pain, but Castiel maintains his grip and Dean finds himself immobilized in shock. The blackness swallows Castiel’s shoulder and then spreads across his wings. White, fluffy feathers twist and shrivel, blackness spilling like oil across massive joints and pinions. Darkly translucent rainbows reflect off the rough edges.

As swirls of black and white energy pulse through both of them, their eyes meet. The Angel’s voice turns low and pleading, cutting through the din.

**Have faith, Righteous Man.**

Dean bites back a cry, and yells “I _can’t!”_

**Yes, you can. I believe in you.**

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and slaps his own hand over Castiel’s on his shoulder.

The movement around them crashes into slow motion.

Visions flash in front of their eyes of scenes neither has witnessed before. Dean sees himself, alive and whole, standing next to Sam, greeting a dark haired man in a trenchcoat. Castiel sees his own essence, inside a human vessel, confiding in Dean on a park bench. A sequence of the two of them, slamming fists into one another’s faces, then a flash of them fighting back to back against common enemies. A shadow of wings burned into the ground, and a trail of blood oozing down a flannel shirt. A mix tape exchanged between careful fingers. Wrapping each other in welcoming arms, embracing like old friends. Hands reaching out to rescue, to comfort, to heal. A dog. A cottage on the side of a lake. Laughter lines and greying temples. A sleepy weekend morning, wrapping a lover in warm arms. 

Green eyes meeting blue, and holding them there for an impossible eternity. 

Neither Dean nor Castiel can comprehend what they’re seeing. Their minds race concurrently, neither having the courage to speak aloud.

**_Have we met before?_ **

_Is Hell messing with our brains?_

**_Could we be seeing alternate universes?_ **

_Is there actually a version of my life where I end up old and happy?_

**_Might this be...our future?_ **

With both of them distracted, the swirling energy threatens to overpower their connected hands. Fear rises in Dean’s throat, choking him, but Castiel refuses to fail his charge now. He gathers his power and channels his own grace directly into the spot where hand meets shoulder. He seeks out the ragged holes in Dean’s spirit, the tattered edges of this man placed on the path to monsterhood. He eases the mind and soothes the heart, sets the bones and cleanses the blood. 

With this action, Castiel ties his grace directly to Dean’s soul, and unwittingly shifts the axis of their world forever. 

No one warns you when a profound bond is about to change your life. Perhaps if someone did, this story wouldn’t turn out the way it does.

Lastly, Castiel heals the skin, erasing decades of scars and carefully dusting freckles across the man’s cheekbones. He barely has time to notice Dean's physical beauty, how the freckles suit the rough hewn texture of his soul, before Alastair’s head begins to stir behind him.

If there’s anything that might prompt Castiel to move faster, it’s the head of that demon rolling back towards his decapitated body.

Castiel clutches at Dean as hard as he can, and Dean clings back, finding himself desperate not to lose this point of contact. This is first touch he's received in decades that is not meant to injure, to control, to harm, but rather to help. It knocks the air from his lungs. The Angel looks into Dean Winchester’s eyes, wide with something he’ll call pain but might be hope.

**I know you are scared. I know the universe has shown you cruelty, and you have no reason to trust me. But I am here because you are worthy. You warrant God’s grace, Dean Winchester. I can feel the strength of your soul burning beneath this broken heart. You are the Righteous Man, yes, but firstly, you are a human being. Perhaps the most human human being I’ve ever held in my hands. So hear me now. There is a life waiting for you, and if you let me, I will raise you from this place so you may live it. You deserve to be _saved._**

Dean’s eyes shine. With a deep breath and a single tear rolling down his cheek, he performs the noblest display of courage Castiel has ever seen.

“Please save me.”

Without another word, Castiel grips Dean tight, spreads his singed wings, and leaps.

~~~~~

And suddenly, Dean is-

-warm.

He’s _warm._

~~~~~

Dean wakes up in a pine box six feet under.

The last thing he remembers is Alastair’s hand extended towards him, and a brilliant flash of light.

~~~~~

They meet for the second time in a barn. It's a Thursday in September, and while autumn air blows a chill through the slats of wood, it is far warmer now than it was at their initial meeting.

In some ways.

“Who are you?” Dean spits out, venom on his tongue.

Castiel instantly feels a modicum of pain in his chest. In a nanosecond, he sends his grace sweeping through the vessel’s torso to examine the superficial injuries. None of Dean’s bullets have pierced his true self, and the body’s damage should hardly register to him. 

Then where is the pain originating from?

He considers Dean’s words.

Oh.

Could it be...disappointment? Grief, even? Castiel had heard tell of human emotion manifesting as physical pain, but had never experienced it for himself. So why now? He supposes a small part of him had expected Dean to remember their introduction. It was a rather dramatic affair, after all, and not one Castiel expects he’ll forget anytime soon. It does make sense for the human psyche to repress traumatic events of cosmic interference, for the simple purpose of maintaining sanity. But he did not anticipate Dean’s forgetting would cause him pain. Strange. 

Castiel reigns in his focus to the angry green eyes boring into his own. The Righteous Man has been saved. That was his mission, and that mission is complete.

So why does the ache in his vessel’s chest remain?

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” 

“Yeah? Thanks for that.” With fury and distrust on his face, Dean rears back and stabs a dagger carved with sigils directly into Castiel’s heart.

That, he feels less than the twinge of pain from moments ago. How odd.

Castiel removes the dagger, flexes his grace, and conjures lightning to crackle behind him. It illuminates the shadows of his now tarnished and blackened wings, only two on this plane. But his mind remains distracted. He contemplates the visions he and Dean had seen when they touched in Hell. Surely they had meant something, for they would not have been shown those snapshots without reason. Is it God’s will that he be their sole rememberer? Is this knowledge of some profound connection his burden to carry, and not Dean’s? The thought strikes more unexpected pain through his chest.

Castiel attempts to set aside his own offputting reaction. It must be a mistake, as his kind do not _feel_ like his Father’s other creations. This man is only human, after all. How could he possibly warrant an emotional response from an Angel of the Lord?

No matter. He looks into Dean Winchester’s eyes and feels certain that it will not happen again. Above all else, Castiel serves Heaven.

Speaking of which.

“We have work for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title loosely inspired by "Sunlight" by Hozier.
> 
> Many thanks to my friend maxxeoff, who inspired and beta'd this fic, and who I miss very much.


End file.
